The Wedding Tree (11 page)

adelaide

I
must have dozed off in my favorite living room chair—a green wingback with birds embroidered on the fabric—because I awakened to the sound of the kitchen door closing. The hearing loss I'd acquired over the last few decades made it difficult for me to tell what direction noises were coming from, but I recognized it by its sound; the kitchen door made an alto thud, as opposed to the softer soprano clunk of the front one. How many times had I heard those doors close?

Must be a million. The first time was as a new bride, when Charlie had brought me to see the home he'd found for us, so proud that the buttons had practically burst off his vest. They'd swung open and closed about a thousand times a day when Becky was a child; she was always coming and going, and she closed doors hard—the way she did everything. Eddie always shut doors softly, as if he didn't want to call any attention to himself. My parents had sashayed in and out of them without knocking, as long as they were alive and mobile.

And then there was Charlie. At first I never heard the door close, because he would call my name the moment he walked in. In later years, his arrivals and departures were marked by angry slams that resonated in the pit of my stomach.

Funny thing about doors, you don't really notice them when
you're the one doing the opening and closing. It's only when they herald someone else's comings and goings that you give them any thought. You can cross over major thresholds in your life and not even realize it until years later.

“Don't go getting all maudlin, Adelaide,” said my mother, her voice as clear as any closing door.

I looked at the ceiling, but I didn't see her. I wasn't sure if I'd heard the words with my ears or only in my mind.

“Time's a-wasting. Hope is home, and you need to get on with it.” Her voice held that imperative tone that used to mean “step lively, child, or I'll get the switch.” I wasn't sure if I were being haunted or going crazy, but I knew better than to go against my mother when she got that tone. I reached for my walker and hobbled to the kitchen.

Sure enough, there was Hope, putting on the teakettle. A sturdy-looking woman sat at the kitchen table, wearing one of those loose-fitting medical outfits—struts? spuds?—I never could remember the name of those clothes. I couldn't remember the name of the woman, either, although I knew I'd seen her before.

“Mrs. McCauley!” She jumped to her feet. “Are you ready to go to bed?”

Why on earth would she ask such a ridiculous question? “No, of course not. I want to talk to my granddaughter. In private, if you don't mind.”

“Oh.” The woman looked nonplussed. “Well, then . . . What . . . Where should I . . .”

“You can watch television in the living room, if you like,” Hope suggested. “Gran and I can talk in here.”

Hope helped me into a chair as the woman left the room. I heard the television blare. Hope closed the door between the two rooms. “Would you like some tea?”

“Please.” I watched her move to the stove.

“Chamomile or Sleepytime?”

It must be evening. I looked out the window and was surprised to see it was dark. Belatedly, I understood why that woman wanted
to put me to bed. Time was a muddle in my mind. I glanced at Hope's feet and saw she was wearing sneakers instead of running around barefoot as she usually did in the house. “You've been out,” I said.

Hope nodded as she filled the kettle at the sink. “I planned to go for a run, but I ended up next door talking to the neighbors about the mural you volunteered me to paint.”

“Oh. Good.” I remembered nothing about a neighbor or a painting project, but I hated appearing stupid almost as much as I hated not being able to hold a thought in my head. “How did it go?”

“Fine. I think I'm actually going to enjoy it.”

I wasn't sure what neighbor she was talking about. Actually, at the moment I couldn't remember who any of my neighbors were. “Well, wonderful.”

She sat down across from me. “When we last talked, you were about to tell me about going up in an airplane with an air force pilot.”

“Oh yes.” I closed my eyes. The next thing I knew, images were flickering on the inside of my eyelids, slowly at first, then faster, as if they were happening all over again. I heard myself telling Hope about it, but the words seemed to be coming from somewhere else, like a news reporter explaining the newsreels they used to show at the movies.

1943

It was a Monday night. I remember because I'd taken photos for the society column about a group called the Monday Mavens, so I came home late.

Marge was already asleep in her twin bed in the room we shared, which was unusual. The hot water bottle on her pillow told me she'd probably had one of her migraine headaches, which meant she'd taken some of Aunt Lucille's medicine that knocked her out. I quietly put up my hair—I always pinned it in a bun on top of my head at night,
which would leave it curly for the next day—and crawled into my narrow bed, under a fraying blue quilt. I was adjusting the pillow under my head when I heard something softly hit the bedroom window.

At first I thought it was a bug, but it happened again—and yet again. Whatever it was made a definite pinging sound—harder than a bug, and strangely rhythmic. A bird, perhaps? My grandmother had once told me about a cardinal that kept flying into her window, thinking that its own reflection was another bird that he needed to fight off. It was dark, though, and most birds didn't fly at night—except maybe owls, and an owl would have made a bigger ruckus.

I headed to the window, pulled aside the cherry-printed curtain, and peered outside.

There, standing in a pool of light from the lamppost on the corner, was Joe—wearing what looked like a flight suit. My heart drummed hard and fast. I'd thought of him often in the two days since the dance. He hadn't called, and I'd begun to think that he'd just been blowing smoke about seeing me again.

I pulled up the window sash. “What on earth are you doing?” I softly called.

“I came to take you flying. Dress warm and come down.”

I hesitated. I wasn't the kind of girl who sneaked out at night to meet men. I knew about those girls—fast girls, loose girls, girls who got in trouble and shamed their families. I could only imagine my mother and father's reaction to such behavior.

But to go flying! It was the adventure of a lifetime—beyond the scope of my family's imagination. It was exactly the sort of adventure I longed for. How could I say no?

I couldn't. I wouldn't!

“I'll be right down.” I threw on a sweater, a wool skirt, and my thickest socks and oxfords. I grabbed a cardigan, then pulled the bobby pins out of my hair, leaving them scattered on the dressing table. I ran my fingers through my hair and started to reach for my lipstick.

No. I wasn't going on an assignation. I was going flying. I grabbed a scarf and my Kodak 35, then sneaked out the back door.

“Hello, there.” He kissed my cheek—just a quick peck, nothing sexual, but it was an uncommon thing for a man to do back then. The nearness filled my senses with him—his height as he bent down, the scruff of his five-o'clock shadow, the softness of his lips, the scent of leather and wind and faint shaving cream. A thrill chased through me.

“What have you got there?” he asked, looking at my hand.

“My camera.”

“Sorry, Addie girl. No photos allowed.”

“But . . .”

“No photos. No evidence this ever happened. Can't put my cohorts in danger.”

I wasn't the only one with something to lose if I were caught, I realized. Sneaking a civilian—especially a woman—aboard a B-24 was probably grounds for a court martial. “Okay.”

He took it from me, then put his hand in the small of my back. “We need to hurry.”

He hustled me to a panel truck parked on the street near a streetlamp and tapped on the passenger-side window. A man wearing a gray jacket embroidered with the words
Benson's Produce
rolled it down. “This is Carl,” Joe said. “He's my bombardier. And Kevin is driving.”

The two men nodded at me. The driver tipped his hat. He was wearing a Benson's Produce jacket, as well.

Joe handed the camera to Carl. “Stash this and give it back to her at the end of the evening, okay?”

He nodded. “Sure thing.”

Joe tugged my arm and led me to the back of the truck, where he opened the double doors. Inside I could dimly make out crates of tomatoes, cartons of fruit, and barrels of potatoes. “I've got a space carved out for you.” He made a stirrup with his hands and boosted me into the dark interior.

My throat tightened with second thoughts as he hoisted himself
up behind me. What was I doing, crawling into the back of a dark truck with a man I didn't really know? What if this was some kind of ominous setup? I hoped he didn't think . . .

Joe turned on a flashlight. “You can sit right here.” He indicated an overturned wooden carton hidden between a high stack of crated tomatoes and squash. “I'll be on the other side.”

Relieved, I sat down where he indicated.

“When we get close, you'll have to get on the floor, and I'll arrange the crates around and over you to hide you.” He sat on the truck bed behind barrels of potatoes. “This truck delivers to the commissary just about every night, so hopefully they won't check the back, but we have to be ready just in case.”

“What'll happen if we're caught?”

“We won't be.”

“But if we are?”

“We won't be, so don't worry about it.”

Easier said than done. My heart thudded hard.

Maybe he heard it from across the truck. “Having second thoughts?”

I was, of course—I was terrified. But I was tired of waiting for my life to begin—tired of waiting for a big break at work, for a chance to travel, for the war to be over. I wanted a big life, a life full of adventure, the kind of life I'd seen in the movies. Having a big life meant taking big risks. “No,” I said with more confidence than I felt.

“All right, then.” He knocked on the front wall of the truck cab. The engine roared to life, so loud that further conversation was impossible.

The truck swayed. The crates shifted. The ride probably only lasted thirty or forty minutes, but it felt like it went on all night. I don't usually get carsick, but the fried chicken I'd had for dinner churned queasily in my stomach.

At last a rap sounded from the cab wall. Joe turned on his flashlight and lurched across the truck. “We're nearing the base.” He motioned for me to lie on the floor and arranged the crates around me, stacking
two long crates over me, about three inches over my head. My face was close to a bag of onions, and the pungent, earthy scent heightened the sense of being buried alive.

Joe quickly returned to his hiding spot, adjusted a barrel of potatoes, and pulled a crate of celery over his head. Through the cracks between the boards, I saw him put his finger against his lips. I nodded, my mouth dry. He turned off the flashlight, plunging us again into blackness.

The truck slowed, then stopped. I guessed we were at the checkpoint to the base.

“Howdy, Tex,” I heard Kevin say.

“Howdy, yourself,” came the twang-tinged reply. “What y'all got tonight?”

“Same old turnips and shit. Hey, you ever get to that jazz club I told you about?”

“Not yet. Is it the kinda place you take a girl or meet one?”

“Both.”

“Maybe I'll check it out this weekend.”

“You won't be sorry,” Kevin said.

“Is the back unlocked?”

“Yeah. But there's no need to look in there.”

“Rules are rules, man.”

I heard footsteps, then the back door opened. Light poured in. I shut my eyes and held my breath, certain the guard could hear my pulse pound.

The floor of the truck dipped and groaned. Oh God! He was climbing in. Every fiber of my body tightened like overstretched bridge cable, ready to snap. The truck shifted as the footsteps drew closer. Even with my eyes clenched, I could tell a flashlight was shining on me—I saw red inside my eyelids. The crate on top of me moved, pulling my hair. I thought I was going to pee myself.

“Hey, you were holding out on me!” yelled the guard.

My mother's face flashed before my closed eyes. Oh, my
Lord—she would die of shame. And then, miraculously, the footsteps receded and the van door slammed shut.

I heard the soldier walk back around to the front of the truck. “What's the big idea?”

“What do you mean?” asked Kevin. His voice was thick, as if he'd just swallowed pudding.

“Didn't tell me there were apples.” I heard a loud crunch.

“Yeah, well, I didn't need to. Figured you'd just help yourself.”

“A man needs sustenance to stay up all night, keeping Nazis off the base.” A thump sounded, as if he'd slapped the side of the truck. “Y'all have a good evening!”